


Bought These Roses (They’re Not For You)

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Locker Room, M/M, Piercings, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had spent a lot of time wondering if finally managing to become a werewolf would make Jackson more or less of an enormous dick. What he did not expect, not at all, was Jackson’s fascination with his dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bought These Roses (They’re Not For You)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt 16 of the Teen Wolf Rarepair Fest. Marvelous beta from shiny_luv. The title is nicked from a song by My Darling Clementine.

Stiles was last in the showers. Again. This time it was less a matter of choice and more the fact that Coach had made him pack up the gear as compensation for sucking at practice. Now the werewolf contingent was back on the field, Stiles’s brand of luck was out of favor.

They’d been in the locker room the first time. Stiles knew that locker rooms were reputed to be hot, sexy places. , but his experience of locker rooms was more three day old reek of unwashed sneakers and a lot of Axe. He’d always been good at compartmentalizing the whole sexy-fun-times he wasn’t having with anyone but himself and his laptop and the actual reality of ignoring all the naked skin and awkward teenagers. Most of the time he just stripped off the practice gear and headed home to shower anyway. But Coach had kept him late and Stiles had arranged to meet Scott for some gaming/plotting to get Allison back.

He hadn’t really thought this through as he showered and, through the copious steam, saw the glint of blue, luminous eyes. There was only one werewolf who had blue eyes that Stiles knew these days. Since Derek had powered up and was all red and extra hairy (and extra scary), that left Jackson. And it made sense that Jackson would be here. What didn’t make sense was why he was wolfing out in the showers in the locker room and coming right for Stiles. And Stiles couldn’t turn around because the idea of turning his back on a werewolf was up there with the worst ideas he’d had. Like deliberately poking that hornet’s nest that one time. But the need to protect his junk was also kind of out there. Whoever it was didn’t come any closer and then suddenly they were gone. Stiles let out a long, slow, heartfelt sigh of relief, shoved on his clothes and headed to Scott’s still mostly wet.

This time Stiles kept his eyes open as he soaped down his skin, listening over the water. He heard the telltale screech of claw on tile and tilted his head back and grinned. He didn’t hear Jackson coming closer – more sensed it. Instead he drew his fingers over the ink of his tattoo, letting his fingers trail, taunt, tease… The bite of claws had him opening his eyes, staring directly into the blue shimmer of Jackson’s. Jackson’s hand was lying over Stiles’s hip, his claws barely pricking into the surface.

Stiles went with Scott when Scott got his tattoo. Firstly, he couldn’t believe Scott was getting a tattoo. Mrs. McCall had been extremely hesitant about signing the piece of paper but, at the end of the day, she’d been persuaded by the combination of Scott’s begging eyes and the long list of protective reasons for getting the tattoo presented by one Stiles ‘Genius’ Stilinski. 

Stiles didn’t know how Scott getting a tattoo had turned into him getting a tattoo as well. Low on his hip, a mix of black ink and silver and a little wolfsbane. Deaton had mixed the ink for Scott, called in a favor and sent them to some kind of witch slash biker goth chick and, voila, Scott’s body wouldn’t reject the tattoo. Stiles didn’t need the super special ink but Deaton had apparently insisted, that zen yet implacable and vaguely scary expression fixed on his face, while he made small talk with his friend. Fuck it hurt. The ache was nothing compared to the fact that the constant thrum of the needle, the press against his skin and the buzz of muted pain sent a thread of electricity straight to his cock, making him hard. Deaton ignored it and Scott rolled his eyes at him and Stiles knew – just knew – he was flushed bright red. He’d thought that all those tales of people getting all hot and bothered by tattoos were just that – tales. Rumors. This was more like proof.

He was very aware of the tattoo under its covering of cling film and medical tape all the way through dinner with his father. He forgot about it during his night time ritual though, rolling about in the bed unthinkingly and feeling an echo of that pain roll straight to his dick. Stiles shoved his pajama pants down, rocking into the tight grip of his fist and pressing his fingertips into the edge of the tattoo with the other. He came, hard, whiting out almost. 

So. Tattoos were a thing for him and so was a certain amount of pain and maybe that explained all the running around with werewolves. And possibly why he was taunting Jackson like this.

“I knew I’d wear you down,” Stiles said. He should be feeling all vulnerable and naked and shit, but, to be perfectly honest, he was more looking forward to this than anything. “Jocks like you always go for the freaky stuff.”

Stiles was aware of the whole ‘I’ve just had a tattoo and I don’t have super werewolf healing powers’ ache but when he leaned forward across the desk in English and knocked it, he couldn’t hold back a sudden huff.

Jackson turned around to catch Stiles automatically flipping his shirt up to check on the bandage. He took a long time to turn around. This time he had no such hesitation, looking his fill before moving in for the kill. The figurative kill, hopefully.

“There aren’t any jocks like me.” Jackson ground the words out, almost against his will, before he pushed Stiles back against the tiles, out of the stream of water, and kissed him. Stiles opened his mouth wide, sucking on Jackson’s tongue. Jackson had been wearing a towel when he wandered through but the pressure of Stiles rubbing against him had it slithering down, sliding off his hips and lying in a sodden pile at their feet. More important was the way Jackson was running his thumb up Stiles’s side, claw scraping at the skin slightly. 

The second time Stiles had waited until the locker room had cleared out before he slid into the showers. He didn’t want to have the whole ‘yeah, I got a tattoo’ conversation. Scott missed out on that shit being as he was still pretty benched. The steam filled the showers as Stiles rinsed off the sweat and the dirt, his mind racing to picking up take out and homework and maybe some reading of a research kind. That’s what he blamed for the fact he didn’t notice Jackson standing under the spray next door.

Jackson’s eyes flashed blue. “Thought you’d got a tattoo, Stilinski.”

“And I thought you’d got a personality-“ Stiles needled. It was a defense mechanism he knew how to fall back on. Stupidly, it was still a bad idea around assholes and werewolves with hair trigger tempers. And since Jackson fitted both those categories, Stiles found himself pinned back against the tile, his arms trapped at his side by Jackson. But Jackson didn’t shift. Instead he let go of Stiles’s wrist and his fingers curled around the outside of the tattoo. He pressed in, nails sharper than they should be, and Stiles found himself arching into Jackson’s chest, the pain sending another punch of electricity through his belly.

Jackson’s nose flared and he let out a heavy breath. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing and who he was holding onto. He dropped Stiles and rushed out of the showers, the steam turning into fantastic curlicues in the wake of his abrupt departure. Stiles leaned against the tiles for a long moment before finally turning the water off.

 

He tried to pretend he didn’t jerk off to the memory of Jackson’s abs and ass and Jackson holding him down and hurting him, just a little. But Stiles knew himself too well to let himself get away with even plausible deniability due to heat of the moment.

Chalk it up to another new thing he’d learned about himself. Every day was a school day after all.

Stiles desperately tried not to think about school as Jackson leaned forward. The flick of the claw against the metal of his piercing made a tiny sound, almost imperceptible over the rush of water. But it rang clear as a bell to Stiles. Jackson rubbing the pad of his thumb over the ring just made Stiles’s hips punch forward. But it was the way Jackson hooked his claw through the metal and pulled that made him pull back to gasp in a breath.

Stiles had got a piercing. He’d been going back and forth about it while his tattoo healed, the swirl of ink settling in to be a permanent part of his bones and skin. He liked it, even when the pain healed up and all the bruising went away, leaving the black and red stark against the paleness of his hip. He developed a habit of pressing his fingers to it when he felt things spinning out of his control – his temper, his words, his heartbeat. It just made his heart beat a little differently.

He learned to jerk himself a little rougher, a little harder too.

The piercing had to be hidden just like the tattoo. His buttoned up dad wouldn’t really approve of the fact Stiles seemed to be experimenting with all kinds of things that trod the line between normal and not. Stiles held his head high when he’d marched into the tattoo parlor, bared his chest, and carried on a normal conversation with the woman from the last time. She remembered Scott more than him, checked the healing, brushed her fingers across the ink. Stiles didn’t want to think about the fact his dick didn’t as much as twitch. But when she plucked his nipple to a peak, shot the bolt through, it was all Stiles could do to stop coming in his pants.

Jackson grinned lazily as he seemed to get the effect pulling on the ring was having on Stiles and Stiles retaliated by grabbing his ass. It felt every bit as good under his hands as he’d imagined it would. But instead of shocking Jackson, it made him lean closer, turn the kiss into something a little fiercer, biting. Stiles ran his hands up the smooth skin of Jackson’s back, the shift of his muscles making it vital and real for all Jackson was sculpted like a statue.

Walking the school hallways while it healed was another reminder to keep it hidden, keep it secret (keep it safe, Stiles sniggered). He hunched over, shifted his bag to his off shoulder, made himself generally more clumsy and klutzy than usual, dancing to the far side of the corridor and making himself late to every class to avoid any chance of the locker rush. It was much worse than the tattoo. The tattoo had been this constant buzz. This was like being stabbed in the chest if he hit it wrong.

He didn’t get out of lacrosse practice. Even the pressure of his protective gear sent low level pulses of pain through his solar plexus. Stiles gritted his teeth and ignored the increasingly heavy weight in his shorts.

“Why do you smell like that, Stilinski?” Jackson was chewing his lip, a high flush painting his perfect cheekbones. “You injured?”

“Nah,” Stiles responded, flapping his hand. Jackson being caring was almost like bizarro world. Maybe Stiles should start talking backwards. He’d gone through a phase of doing that, driving everyone nuts for a few weeks. He could probably remember enough to carry on a conversational ramble. Then a devilish idea cropped up. “Got a piercing. It’s healing.” 

Jackson’s head swung around as if to check no one else could see him. Then, even weirder, he leaned closer. “Where? Where the fuck did you get pierced, Stilinski?”

“Say please.” Stiles was wondering if he would get his ass kicked by this point.

But Jackson just narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw. Then, obediently, out of the blue and between intensely gritted teeth. “Please.”

“Right nip. Silver bar. I’m wondering if I should keep it a bar or go for a ring.” The last of his words were directed to Jackson’s back as Jackson started walking off the field. He shoved some hapless freshman entirely too hard as he stormed off, making them crash into Scott on the bench. The glare Scott directed at Jackson was probably the sort of glare Stiles should have been directing at the giant douchebag. But Stiles knew he probably wore something more calculating.

The third time, he didn’t turn away from Jackson when he caught the tell-tale glimpse of blue eyes through the steam on the shower. Instead he stretched his arms up into the water, scrubbing his hands through his hair. The tiles beside where Jackson had been standing had tiny cracks – the sort of cracks caused by someone digging their claws in – when Stiles finally decided he was clean enough and walked out.

The piercing healed quicker than the tattoo but it definitely didn’t become part of his skin. It was a constant reminder of what he’d done to himself – catching on clothes, gleaming in mirrors. He even made Scott jump back in shock when he attempting to nipple pinch Stiles over some hard fought head to head gaming. Sometimes Stiles just stuck his head into the neck of his t-shirt to check it was still there. 

His window made a distinctive squeak when it was pushed up from the outside. Stiles should really oil the runners but he quite likes the warning. He definitely it when he turned from his desk to see Jackson clambering over his window ledge. That was new.

“Does my window have some kind of werewolves welcome mat?” Stiles tried to appear casual as he sprawled back in his chair, glaring flatly at Jackson. 

Jackson looked around, his lip curling as he seemed to judge every inch of Stiles’s space. “Saves you having to move your lazy ass and answer the door.”

Jackson hovered while Stiles waited. He could do that now. It was a strange and entirely unexpected consequence of being beaten to a pulp and then tossed aside as worthless by Gerard. Stiles could keep the words prisoner behind his teeth. Finally Jackson shrugged and tossed a small black jewelry box at Stiles. Then he jumped out of the window.

Stiles scrubbed his hand through his too long hair. Who knew what Jackson had left him? It might explode or some shit. Stiles tossed the box from hand to hand, shook it. Sniffed it. Finally he gave in and opened it. 

A metal ring. Jackson was obviously a fan of the idea of rings after all.

It certainly felt good with Jackson’s claw hooked through it. If Stiles had been in his right mind, he possibly might have taken the time to admire Jackson’s level of control but Stiles wasn’t even aware he was rubbing his cock against Jackson’s abs until Jackson worked his free hand in between them and wrapped his fist tight around Stiles’s cock. He kept his claw hooked in Stiles’s nipple ring and when Stiles blinked his eyes open again, blinked the water from his eyelashes, he could see that Jackson looked just as dazed by the fact as he was. The water made his skin slick as Jackson began to pull and tug, too strong, too hard, too fast. Stiles opened his mouth on a moan, hoping the pounding water would continue to mask any sound they might make. He had his hands wrapped tight around Jackson’s shoulders and, while he knew he should reciprocate, he couldn’t lift his hands away. Jackson’s smug grin widened.

Back then, it was as if a switch had been flicked. Jackson was still stand-offish and, basically, an asshole. Stiles was still himself, sharp and brittle and willing to take on all comers with his tongue. But their animosity became something else. If Stiles had a werewolf nose, he’d have said it was arrrousal.

He laughed at himself as he thought it, his brain rolling the r’s for him. He caught Jackson’s eye and deliberately leaned back, pulling his t-shirt tight, letting his over-shirt fall to the side. The ring was apparent to anyone looking for it. And Jackson was. His head went down, but not before Stiles saw the telltale flash of blue. 

Now, Stiles spat words into Jackson’s face. “Fuck you, Whittemore.” It didn’t make Jackson stop. Instead he leaned closed, drew Stiles’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged. That made Stiles spill over Jackson’s hand, his orgasm shocked out of him in a sudden, white, unstoppable blast. 

“I’m thinking about getting another tattoo.” Stiles heard the hitch in Jackson’s breath from behind him, as he leaned close to Lydia. “Something decorative.”

Lydia sniffed, opening her locker and swapping out books and checking her makeup in the mirror. She was the queen of multitasking. “Tattoos are very permanent, Stiles. Before you know it, you’ll be wearing leather and chains and everything as well.”

“I still need your help with the eyeliner.” He threw it out almost half-heartedly, judging the reaction from Jackson by the subtle screech of claws against the metal locker doors. “I do kinda like it.”

“Yeah, you’re a bad boy, Stiles.” Lydia raised her eyebrow. “And I’ve got a project due.”

Stiles watched her walk away. It was an automatic instinct. It also meant he didn’t have to turn and face Jackson. That option became more mandatory and a whole lot less voluntary when Jackson grabbed his shoulder. “I know what you’re doing, Stilinski.”

Stiles just grinned, lazily. He didn’t even need to say anything. 

Jackson was just as enjoyable to watch walking away.

Jackson was still rubbing against him as Stiles – slowly – came back to earth. He wanted to get his hands on Jackson’s cock but he had the sneaking suspicion that if he let go he might end up in a pile on the floor of the shower. “You haven’t come.” Way to state the obvious, Stilinksi. “You should. You should come on my tattoo, mark it up. White and black and skin.”

Jackson’s elbow moved in a very familiar way, jerking fast and hard. Jackson’s mouth slid down Stiles’s neck, kissing and sucking until he fastened his mouth on the juncture of Stiles’s neck and shoulder and bit hard, teeth human although edging towards inhumanly sharp. Stiles felt the spatter against his hip and he knew that his own dick twitched, last bit of come spilling out as Jackson leaned against him, shuddering.

Now he had come down, Stiles felt the chill of the cool water on his wet skin. He should step back into the shower, rinse off and get ready to go. Soon enough the caretaker would be coming around to switch off the lights for the night. Jackson slowly pushed away. He unhooked his claw before it slid back to his normal, human fingernail.

“Sorry.” Jackson didn’t look sorry, putting on one of his arrogant, unconcerned, you’re beneath me masks. Stiles knew better.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not going to buy me roses, I get it.”

“Would you want roses?” Jackson smirked now, more relaxed.

Stiles leveled him with a flat glare and let the look answer for him. Jackson turned away and perfunctorily washed himself before heading, naked, through to the locker room.

“You can bring me jewelry now and again,” Stiles muttered, as he stepped under his own shower. “For my next piercing.” He caught sight of the flash of bright blue eyes and hummed to himself as he soaped up again. This could be very beneficial, for both of them.


End file.
